Wallstreet God (The House Of Creed Book 1)

by D. M. Burns

  You don’t have to be a fucking psychic to know how this is going to playout. The head-on collision moves in slow motion before my eyes. The tray Brealyn’s carrying tips and both women are now wearing four different kinds of infused caffeine all over their clothing. Brealyn’s face is one of pure shock and Cassia’s reflects livid trust fund bitch about to explode. Oh, for fuck sake.

  “YOU STUPID BITCH!” Cassia screeches. The entire House of Creed’s family floor had to hear that shrill high-pitched she-demon screech.

  “Oh, I’m… I’m… I’m so deeply sorry. It was an accident. Please just give me a second and I’ll grab some napkins. We’ll getcha dress cleaned right up.” Brealyn pleas mixed with sheer panic morphs over her features. Her southern accent is thick as she tries to appease the crude bitch in front of her.

  “You just ruined a three-thousand-dollar dress, ignorant whore.” Cassia snarls.

  “What?... Oh my God. I’m truly sorry.” Brealyn’s soft voice sounds out imploring her obvious regret over the incident, but the female version of Lucifer is an uncaring cunt. Plus, I hear Brealyn’s unspoken what the heck at the price Cassia announced she spent on a simple black dress.

  My jaw clenches tight and my head starts pounding as my footfalls move at a fevered pace forward to end this shit scene. If anything, this is Cassia’s fault. The bitch was an unwelcomed visitor and shouldn’t have been here in the first place. My shoes echo out in my approach singling to them that the boardroom boss is on the move. Their heads both snap to attention as I close in.

  “Cassia, the dress is unfortunate but an accident. Send me the bill but you were leaving.” I growl while pointing toward the elevator. “Now.”

  Cassia’s face turns beet red, but she reluctantly steps into the steel box without another word. When the doors start to close the little bitch manages to flip me off. I squint my eyes and give her Manhattan bitchiness a side smirk. Brealyn gasps and her eyes go wide.

  “I’m soooo sorry, Mr. Creed. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” Brealyn whispers. She looks down at the front of her coffee covered suit. Geneva runs up from behind me with wet clothes and hands them off to her.

  “What’s going on out here?” Carson asks as he skips his smiling happy ass down the hallway. Bozo is tardy to the party. “Whoa, you’re soaked.”

  “You don’t miss much do you, Carson?” I deadpan.

  “Brea, that was no one’s fault. It was an accident. Ignore the Couture queen. She’s a rude woman.” Geneva says while helping Brealyn pick up the mess of cups from the floor.

  Bending down I pluck the cup up at my feet and look to see Brealyn studying me out of the corner of her sapphire colored eyes. Of course, her thoughts are loud and clear. Why can’t I silence this southern belle like everyone else?

  Nice one Brea. Saturating the Wallstreet God’s girlfriend is a lovely icebreaker after that crappy interview a few weeks back. Hopefully, he took his meds this morning.

  My smile twists the tips of my lips, but I cough through it. “Gen, please call the janitorial service and have them take care of this mess.” Turning on my heel I flee the coffee shop gone wrong scene. My amusement is short-lived as I head back to my office. Not sure why it pisses me off that Brealyn thinks Cassia is my girlfriend, but it does. I want to correct her assumption, but I can’t.

  Chapter 5

  Brealyn

  Frantically brushing the front of my latest and greatest TJ Max blouse with the damp cloth, I stare at the lost cause of my cleaning efforts. This coffee stain is never coming out, like ever. My silk white-had to be white-blouse is dreadfully coming close to looking just like a wet t-shirt contestant blue ribbon winner. One thing is for sure, I won’t offer to make any more office coffee runs.

  That woman came out of nowhere. I truly feel bad for ruining her dress though. Even I can admit it was beautiful. A far cry from what I consider to be three-thousand-dollars’ worth of beautiful, but who am I to judge. Maybe if I had more money than common sense then I’d think differently. Probably not but whatever.

  Still, I don’t believe I’d throw away that kinda cash on a single dress. There are children out here that are in need. I’d much rather put clothes on their backs than make sure mine was covered in a name brand existence. Call me crazy, but those tiny humans are much more important than a name etched out on the inside tag of my wardrobe.

  Surprisingly, my shock factor wasn’t found in the coffee colliding encounter, no. My anxiety levels skyrocketed when the woman flipped Mr. Creed off. His only response was a sexy smirk. Seriously, what the F? It was like some kind of twisted foreplay those two were sharing and I was intruding in on their kinky banter. Quite frankly, it creeped me out. Brogan Creed is a darker version of the Grim Reaper sans the black robe. He’s a boardroom boogeyman in a custom-made business suit.

  The day I interviewed here; I was scared shitless. Normally, I don’t cuss, but there’s no other way to explain my reaction to that man. I anticipated Carson’s exuberant energy to swarm around like the live wire that he’s known to be. Heck, I even looked forward to meeting him in person, but he never said a word about Mr. Creed attending. Surprise, surprise.

  When my body cleared the threshold and he came into view sitting behind the elongated redwood throne, my insides started to shake. If Carson had warned me then I could’ve prepared myself. That dark cloud of extraterrestrial doom sapped at me like a lightning bolt.

  After Mr. Creed’s butt-holiness, I marched right out of there with zero intentions of working at The House of Creed, ever. But Carson’s heartfelt apology on the elevator ride down unsettled my quick decision. Then he explained that Mr. Creed’s medication was a factor and that had me praying for his partner's speedy recovery. Mental health and chemical imbalance issues are no joking matter. At any rate, Brogan Creed is a formidable presence that turns me into a blubbering idiot.

  That man is silent intimidation. Not that he needs to say anything because the news related stories tell all about his climb to success. His corporate body count is no secret either. The financial death toll steadily continues to rise too. If he sets his murky white gaze on your piggy bank then break it, he will, you’re done. I’ve always looked up to the man behind the success story.

  Brogan was as much of a Wallstreet God-like figure to me as the Manhattan scene believes him to be. I thought him to be intriguing, debonair, and successfully sophisticated beyond his years. That is until he lashed out and burned my little girl fascination for him by shaming my wardrobe. He enjoyed breaking me down too. I saw it. I felt it. It hurt. That unattractive trait swiftly evaporated any aspirations I had for him.

  His materialistic mindset was like getting slap with a cold bucket of ice water on a recording-breaking heatwave kind of day in the middle of Georgia. It was all I needed to know about Mr. Creed. Yes, I’m fully aware that most individuals are driven by money, labels, and status. But that glass door to the face showstopper was a shattering surprise coming from him though.

  I know what you’re wondering. Why did I think he’d be any different? Well, I’ll tell you why. Everything about him screams different in the most fascinating way. His midnight hair has a unique blonde-white streak right above his left ear and those eyes are the color of icy white blue beams. But my secret in all of this is that those eyes are three years’ worth of familiar for me.

  The man always looks as though he’s in deep thought or agony but in search of some kind of peace. He’s exceptionally rare and distinctive. I guess I just hoped his insides mirrored the outside, unique. My country girl gut instincts are normally always on point but every now and then they fail me. I’m not sure why I held him in such high regard. It doesn’t make sense.

  Moving here after graduating from Georgia University was a dream come true. While clutching my marketing degree in one hand and my suitcase in the other, I took off. I was desperate to experience life and see the world. Get my belly full of life’s little adventures while satisfying my curiosity for everything outsi
de of my hometown.

  My grandparents encouraged me to live it up. They raised me after both my parents were in a fatal car accident when I was only three. My dad’s parents are angels in my book, and I miss them every day. But being an only child and thirsty for new encounters, they pushed me out the door. Well, here I am.

  In my first few months, I saw everything with optimism. Meeting every new situation with star-glazed eyes and imagining endless possibilities. For the most part that was easy until I was mugged three different times in less than two months. And if that wasn’t enough, having my apartment broken into twice over sorta tarnished my view a little bit. During those crap-tastic events, I learned the value of sturdy deadbolts and handy-ready mace. Life lessons, check. √

  Honestly, after three years of New York, I’ve been second-guessing my life choices over the past couple of months. Plus, my grandmother’s not in the best of health, and I’m worried about her. Even though she assures me that she’s doing fine, my instincts are pinging out a different tune. I’m a proud, born, and raised southern Georgia peach, and Atlanta will always be home. Going home will happen. I’m just not sure when.

  This new job is exactly what I’ve dreamt about though, but I’ve never been led around by my career, money, or status. I’m simple and my needs are minimal. The slightest shift in the wrong direction and I have no problem making necessary changes for moral balance. Happiness is key for me.

  “Brea… Are you in here?” Geneva asks while peeking her head around the bathroom door.

  Geneva is the stylish, upbeat momma bear at The House of Creed. Soft-spoken but hard as nails. Her brown hair is always up in a sophisticated tight bun and her wardrobe screams professionalism. She has the kindest warm brown eyes that invite you in to share all your secrets and burdens with. She’s a wonderful lady. Then again, I guess you’d have to be considering who her boss is. I’ll pray about that last remark later.

  “Yes, mam.” I blow a lock of stray hair out of my face while staring in the mirror at my now murky light brown see-through white blouse. Secretly, I’m high fiving myself for wearing my sexy white bra. At least the masked muggers weren’t into lingerie cross-dressing and didn’t take my good bra. Glass half full. Ughh… My eyes follow Geneva in the mirror as she strolls into the bathroom stopping right beside me.

  “And this entire time I thought you were hiding out in here because of the run-in with the wicked Couture queen.” She smirks.

  “No, mam. Flashing my male or female associates my first ninety days isn’t how I want to move up the corporate ladder.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “But I do feel really bad about ruining Mr. Creed’s girlfriends dress.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “No need to worry about that, accidents happen. Besides, Brogan doesn’t do the girlfriend thing. If he did, she wouldn’t be it. I’d choke him first before I’d let that happen. The thought of having to deal with her makes me break out into a cold sweat. God help us all. Anyway, she’s not his type.” That’s funny, I would’ve bet that her wardrobe alone solidified their compatibility. Cold and overpriced.

  “You’re pretty close to him, huh?” She nods her head in answer. “He’s lucky to have you, Geneva.” I toss the handful of used up napkins in the trash can.

  “Brogan keeps everyone at a distance. He has his reasons but mark my words, he’s a good man. Just try to keep an open mind. Anyway, Carson’s waiting for you in the conference room. Your scheduled marketing teleconference is in ten minutes then the staff meeting is to follow. Do you have a jacket in your office that I can grab for you?”

  “Yes, mam. My overcoat is on the back of my door. Bless your heart, Geneva. You’re a lifesaver.” I send up a thank you to Big G as she takes off to get my jacket. The Hooter’s on display crisis has been averted for the day.

  chapter 6

  brogan

  My curiosity got the better of me and instead of invading Miss. Winters brainwaves, I spent the last couple of hours going through human resources personnel cyber files for her. Which in all fairness; I have every right to become familiar with whom I have employed at my company. Hell, I’m the damn boss. It’s my job.

  Come to find out, our newest member of the Creed family is from a place I’ve become remarkably familiar with, Atlanta, Georgia. I wonder if Miss. Winters knows any of those crazy country fuckers in the Chaos crew. That reminds me to check in on my down south partner, Rampage Carter. Our shared interest is that of Aces Down. That club is currently undergoing a force placed facelift by yours truly.

  The hot little interior designer I hired, Lena Carter, redesigned my personal penthouse at Aces first. While I was in Atlanta, I was able to briefly enjoy her talented handiwork. It was like the woman waved a magical wand turning the place into a functional mix of cozy but evenly balanced it out with a side of edgy. Lena has raw talent and even though she’s brilliant with design, that’s not why I hired her at Aces, oh-no. Let’s just say I have some Ruthless Tendencies too and move on.

  It would seem that Miss. Winters was raised by her grandparents after an unfortunate car accident claimed both her parents at a young age. I’ve also learned that she moved to Manhattan straight out of college. Maybe I had to dig a little deeper than that good ole personnel file to know all this, but she did sign the authorization for disclosure and background check.

  Brealyn’s a country girl with solid morals and southern roots. Everything that a place like New York devours as an appetizing snack, pre-main course. The girl can’t even bring herself to think about curse words. She probably prayed for an hour after her interview where she mindlessly but repeatedly called me a butthole and referred to my dick as a pee-pee. Oh, and I bet the prick word she spewed got a few hail Mary’s too. Then again, she’s Christian, not Catholic, so maybe not. Yeah, I’ve been thoroughly all up in Miss. Winters historical fact-finding attic with a fine-tooth comb. The woman intrigues me. Why? Fuck if I know.

  Pushing back from my desk, I stroll out of my office in search of Carson. All the partners are supposed to be meeting in one of the conference rooms. We need to go over some details for The House of Creed’s black-tie event at the end of the week. We hold this lavish gathering every year near Christmas time and it’s the only company affair I make an appearance at.

  The sole purpose, for me anyway, is to scope out the up and coming corporate adversaries for the new year to come. My enemies on the rise require my focus and attention. That’s where I find my boardroom boss challenges that fill my warlord business calendar. It a sadistic little hobby but it keeps me mildly entertained and my asshole attitude somewhat satisfied.

  Notably, Carson’s responsible for making sure that the other sidearm suits act accordingly instead of treating this company gathering like a free for all fuck-fest. Last year, side suit number one, Brock Myrick, was caught fucking one of our rival’s girlfriends in the chief’s walk-in freezer. When Carson confronted him about it, the asshole merely shrugged and said he was only trying to offer up some stiff competition.

  Carson busted out laughing and I called it a night. I’ll never admit it but even I chuckled under my breath. Then side suit number two, Damien Reed, ended up leaving with triplets. Side suit number three, Lance Roth, was the only one to hold down the professional undertone expected of him. He carefully walks that corporate tight rope. Lance is Mr. Responsibility and a future heart attack waiting to happen.

  Their loose swinging dicks are not my problem. That’s Carson’s damn department and even he steers clear of their bullshit unless it directly affects the company. Fucking with the wrong woman can lead to a led induced death but these men are grown. Last I checked I wasn’t their fucking daddy, so I don’t pretend to take that title on.

  The laughter rolling out of the conference room directs me straight to Carson along with the rest of the marketing team. His boisterous laugh mixed with others piques my interest. When I silently toe the door open, I lean against the frame and observe our team.

  My eyes scan over the heads until it
lands on Damien. He’s dick wishing deep in a masterful attempt to verbally dry-hump Brealyn’s leg. She looks about as impressed with him as she is with the No. 2 pencil she’s mindlessly rolling under her fingertips against the table.

  Damien is a cocky little bastard. He’s a GQ walking advertisement with slicked-back dark brown hair and violet eyes. The asshole’s famous for his fuckboy charm when it comes to PR and client retention. Wining and dining the patrons is his craft and specialty. He can talk more shit than an auctioneer speed toking a crack pipe. And his intentions are far from honorable when the other sex is involved. He’s not a bad guy as long as you’re not an innocent wide-eyed southern belle.

  Brealyn’s wrapped up in her overcoat from the coffee collision earlier. My hats off to her for not taking that as an opportunity to flaunt her tits. Most women would. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, but she quickly averts her gaze back to the leader of the meeting, Carson. That doesn’t deter Damien from his future fucking fantasies, no. He’s into the conquest. Then clear as fucking day I hear her.

  Swear to the almighty up above. If this guy brushes up against me one more time, I’m going to nail his cotton-picken shin with my darn stiletto.

  Judging by her declaration to the almighty, it’s safe to say that Damien’s pushing it. My jaw starts to tick, and my eyes bore down on Damien. His head snaps to me. Yeah, that’s right motherfucker. Back the fuck off. Distance dickhead. Damien reaches up and pulls at his tie nervously while moving his chair away from Brealyn. Normally, I wouldn’t give a fuck. But as I’ve said before, she intrigues me, and this motherfucker needs to learn how to keep his fucking hands to himself.

  The big boss saves the day, but I’ll round back to this sweet peach of a piece later. Why is Brogan eyeballing me like I’m a contaminated ball sack? Shit… Did I forget to throw that condom away last week when I fucked Shannon in his war room? Damn… I bet that’s it.